


The "Ever After" in the Happily Ever After

by DameFrostyFace



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Gay Sex, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Romance, Sex, Ten Years Later, Tender Sex, These men deserve good things, True Love, Water Sex, and by god i'm going to give it to them, many lotr references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameFrostyFace/pseuds/DameFrostyFace
Summary: Written for The Witcher Secret Santa 2020 for Tumblr user stillness138. Geralt and Iorveth re-visit the town of Flotsam, the memories they left there, and things get emotional and sexy along the way. We see how the town, and they, evolved over the past decade. Takes place about 10 years after The Witcher 2, and is canonical to my fic The Green Man And The Gwynbleidd, although you do not need to have read one to read the other.Many LOTR and Silm references, some quotes from the movie, some just random elf things. I hope this is enjoyed thoroughly!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	The "Ever After" in the Happily Ever After

“Of all the places to get stalled, eh?”

Geralt tried to crack the stiffness out of his neck to no avail and did not reply to his elfin companion. Sleeping on boats still didn’t agree with the witcher the last time he’d been this way, and it didn’t agree with him now. He longed for the comfort of a bed and a warm fire, tangling legs and arms up with Iorveth’s in the same lazy fashion to which they’d both become accustomed. 

Water sloshed against the docks of Flotsam, people bustling through a town now nigh unrecognizable since their last night here.

“Looks a good deal better, doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” Geralt agreed. “Less on fire, too.”

Iorveth snorted, although he tried to cover it up with a cough. “Don’t say things like that, love; they might hear you. I may not be a criminal these days, but you never know. I do cut a recognizable figure.”

They bumped shoulders affectionately, just barely brushing the backs of their hands against one another. Geralt’s finger twitched out of habit- how often they had met like this back home in Toussaint and caught together, fingers hooking to reel in hands held tight- and retract again. 

An apologetic dockmaster handed them both slips of paper good for a couple of nights at the combination inn and brothel.

“You’ll want to go south past the gate just there, then hang east through the square ‘till you see the Sign of the Elvin Maid. Lady of the house Margot’ll put you up nice an’ cozy, I should think.”

“Huh.” Geralt couldn’t keep his surprise quiet. The dockmaster looked at him askance. 

“Somethin’ odd, sir?”

The corner of Iorveth’s mouth quirked up slightly, the accompanying eyebrow raising just a bit. 

The witcher met the dockmaster’s eyes with a placid expression. “Friend of mine lived here a long while back, was particularly fond of the bar. I thought it was the Sign of the Wench and Bear, but memory’s a tricky thing.”

The dockmaster nodded sagely. “Ah, that must’ve been a long while back indeed, sir. ’Twas before my time manning the docks- I lived up Novigrad way a’fore the war- but I’m given to understand there was a terrible fire through ‘ere right ‘round the time that big war in Upper Aedern happened. There’s a plaque on the Elvin Maid if you’d like to look about.”

“We will. It sounds like this town has a rich and wondrous history,” Iorveth drawled. 

“Yes, well-,” The dockmaster started, bemused, cut off as Geralt tugged on Iorveth’s sleeve to pull him away. 

They fell naturally into step together, but Iorveth couldn’t help but needle the witcher a little bit. “Why the hurry? You didn’t want to hear the folksy legend that these people deemed plaque-worthy? For shame, Geralt.”

The witcher snorted, wishing he could grab Iorveth’s face and kiss him silent. He loved doing that just as much as Iorveth loved doing the same to him. He could picture it in his head- Iorveth would keep trying to say something about how valuable it is to listen to the ridiculous legends that grow up around real events, and Geralt ought to know that as a witcher, and he’d keep trying to talk over Geralt’s lips and kiss him at the same time until they fell into a heap-

He shook himself from the fantasy and instead settled for locking eyes with Iorveth for half an intimate moment, warming his heart in the elf’s green eye.

“We can interview people and boost our egos after we’ve got a room somewhere.”

“Ah, true. We might end up having some sort of heroes welcome from Margot-“

“Or she’ll toss us out on our asses.”

Iorveth nodded sagely. “True. Equal chances of either, I fear. Well, I’m no stranger to roughing it in this part of the world.”

“Mmm. Better be careful, though, last time I passed through here, there were some pretty dangerous elves out this way.”

Iorveth bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s. “Truly? How fearsome.”

“Indeed. I’ve got a poster somewhere with the leader’s face on it. I’ll show you when we’re home again, helluva mug on him.”

Now Iorveth’s face broke open in a broad, sharp-toothed smile that made Geralt’s heart flutter even now. “What an old romantic you’ve become, keeping things like that.”

The witcher smiled a little in reply.

They walked a road at once strange and familiar. The re-built city kept the same patterns and pathways it had, though the buildings were different. Ten years ago, Geralt had Iorveth’s hands tied, and the skies over flotsam were dark and pregnant with the promise of rain. They’d spat venom, but still fought side by side on the deck of that prison ship. The witcher had already fallen for Iorveth, but if he hadn’t, that would undoubtedly have pushed him over the edge.

Geralt snuck a look at Iorveth and pondered how different he looked and yet, how similar the elf must seem to those who hadn’t spent years with him, watching him. Elves did not age like humans. Most books about the species, written by mortals with mortal lifespans or sorcerers unwilling to fact check themselves, opined elves immune to time’s progress. They were wrong and unobservant, but Geralt had learned the secret.

One particular patch of skin often caught Geralt’s eye. When he’d marched Iorveth through town on that dark night, the witcher had focused on a sliver of skin on the elf’s wrist between his palm and the start of his jacket sleeve. Something about it fascinated him. In the intervening years, Geralt familiarized himself with that stretch of flesh- pressing kisses against it, running his thumb over it, lingering to feel Iorveth’s pulse against him. Meticulous research lead Geralt to notice the undertone of Iorveth’s skin had changed ever so slightly. 

Decades spent roughing it had given him a swarthy tone, but he had the faintest touch of pink underneath the sun’s affections. However, in the last decade, it had all but gone away, replaced by a strange and beautiful undertone of gold. He’d puzzled about it for ages, coming to the conclusion that this was much the same for elves as it was for humans. Age turned skin from pink to sallow in the elderly. It stood to reason the same made elves turn gold.

The differences did not stop there, subtle though they were. Geralt watched Iorveth as he walked. His step was no less light- if anything, his grace increased with time- and he wove in and out between pools of sunshine bleeding through the canopy above. Every now and again, he’d have to pass through a patch, and Geralt watched the light dance off of his hair, dark as ever to the naked eye, but Geralt had found a silver strand or two when they sat together of an evening. 

“Eyes to yourself,” Iorveth quipped over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want your second impression in Flotsam to include stories about the White Wolf tripping over his own feet.”

Tension laced the elf’s voice, and Geralt ached to hold him. Iorveth had tried to sound lighthearted, likely for Geralt’s sake, but the witcher could almost smell the cauldron of emotion within the elf. 

Flotsam was not a place they’d longed to visit. 

Shortly they found the town square and took it in. The gallows were gone, they noted, to equal delight. 

“There are elves inside the city walls,” Iorveth noted. Many elves, in fact, and a few familiar faces to boot. They milled about the square, traded, tended booths, and did all the things an ordinary citizen might do.

“A fair few more dwarves, too.” Geralt said. “I think there was a halfling shoe-shop three buildings down.” 

“Is it even Flotsam, really, if I’m not constantly at risk of inciting a Lynch mob hungry for my filthy elvish blood?”

Geralt rolled one of his shoulders in a shrug and did not reply.

He did nod, however, to the tavern across the way. A bright, well-painted sign swung back and forth lazily in a warm breeze from the nearby swamp.

“Let’s head on. We’re getting funny looks.”

Funny might not have been the right word. The various non-humans around them had at least caught sight of Geralt and were whispering to their neighbors of all species. This is what the witcher had been worried about. Most Flotsam citizens only knew Iorveth’s face from his wanted posters and red turban, one inaccurate and the other long since abandoned. To most, he was just a tall, beautiful elf man with a dramatic swoop of hair covering his left eye for reasons only he knew. 

Geralt, on the other hand, was frozen in time and very noticeable. His hair was longer than it had been, as was Iorveth’s, but Geralt still sported snowy locks and his wicked yellow eyes. 

They kept walking, quickening their pace as much as they dared. As they walked under the sign of the Elfin Maid, Geralt heard Iorveth snort through his nose.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the elf, but Iorveth just shook his head.

“Nothing, nothing. I’ll tell you later if it comes up.” He opened the door, holding it open for Geralt quite gallantly. 

“Beauty before age, witcher,” he quipped.

“It’s the other way around. And you’d be going inside first either way.” It pleased Geralt to know end to see a little blush tint the tips of Iorveth’s ears. Geralt entered the bar first nonetheless, intending to make a beeline for the bar and the possibility of getting a good room. The tavern was warm and crowded with the same sort of mixed-species crowd as the out of doors. So packed was it that Iorveth took the opportunity to close ranks and sidle up behind Geralt, resting his hand on the witcher’s shoulder.

The atmosphere pleased them both, though Iorveth groused about the ceilings being too low as he was wont to do in most places. 

“Do d’hoine enjoy living in cave-like spaces because they miss the real thing? They could always start doing that again; I’d support the idea,” he muttered into Geralt’s ear, leaning in so close the witcher could feel his warm breath. 

“Then who would keep you warm at night? Besides, I don’t like sleeping in caves if I don’t have to.”

“You know you don’t count, witcher. And I think you’re legally an aen seidhe through-“

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as a loud, commanding woman’s voice shouted over the crowd.

“Ey, witcher! You, the fine lad in the white, and your friend!” 

Through the crowd Geralt could see, bobbing furiously, a bright red hat around which the patrons in various stages of drunkenness parted. 

“She shall, indeed, pass,” Iorveth muttered, although Geralt could hear fondness in his quip. 

Underneath the familiar and wonderfully floppy red hat was the rest of Margot, proprietress of the Bear-and-Wench-turned-Elfin-Maid as well as the attached and presumably similarly-named brothel. She stopped just short of them, glaring up at the two men.

Geralt opened his mouth to say something but was stopped short by a tight hug, catching up both elf and witcher. 

“You ought’ve told me you were comin, boys, I’dve met you down dock-side.” She released them both and stepped back a bit, indicating Iorveth with her chin. “From him, I’d expect such, but you, witcher? I am disappointed in your rudeness. I shall have to report you straight-off to that fine Mister Dandelion, he’ll give you a fine tongue lashing and no mistake.”

Though she chided them like children, her warm smile and bright eyes took out any bite or threat they might’ve had. Iorveth stepped from behind Geralt and bowed his head the slightest bit.

“Thank you for the welcome. I like the changes you’ve made- the sign, especially.”

A sad shadow flitted across Margot’s face. “You’ve seen that then.”

The elf nodded. “It is hanging right over the door, and-“ he spoke over her, “-I do think she would appreciate it. It’s a good sentiment and a good likeness.”

Geralt concealed his inner revelation well and his slight internal shame at forgetting Derae. He’d seen her body sprawled on the floor, dead by human hands. He’d seen Margot’s tear-stained face and overwhelming rage when she demanded he and Iorveth find the elf woman’s killers. 

It was only later he’d learn why she’d been so distraught- that Margot and Derae had been much more than madame and worker, but as close to married as two women could be. Upon this revelation, he’d joined in the crusade to avenger her death with Iorveth with renewed vigor. The world was a safer place for their deaths, safer for himself, for Iorveth, for Saskia, for Ciri, for Margot, and all like them.

The gloom shook off as Margot herded them to a quieter corner away from the general rabble and into a booth.

“What is it brings you this way without telling your old friend?”

“Nothing intentional. Our boat was stalled here. Don’t take offense, but after our explosive departure, you can understand why we wouldn’t return with much enthusiasm.”

As she smiled, the smile lines and crows feet at the corners of her eyes crinkled merrily. She was as great a beauty as ever- or perhaps Geralt had learned to appreciate age. 

“Pity. After the fire Loredo set, the townsfolk weren’t best pleased. Some might call what we became a Lynch mob, but I fancy it something more revolutionary. A people’s court, maybe.”

“And you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you, Margot?” Iorveth asked, propped up on his elbows.

Her almost matronly smile split into a wicked grin. “That’s what I’d tell anyone else who went around askin’. And I wouldn’t admit to giving testimony against him, either, and not a soul can prove that I did.”

Her face fell, and the mood went deadly serious. “You did good, killing ‘em.”

Iorveth shrugged. “True, but I can’t take all the credit. This one here-“ he jerked his head in Geralt’s direction, “-Is pretty handy with a sword when you want him to be.”

Geralt rested his hand on Iorveth’s knee and squeezed it lightly. Margot did not miss the gesture.

“I take it you’ll only need one room, then?”

Geralt nodded. “It’s habit at this point. He’d get lonely by himself.”

“Oh would I? The wolf practically whines if I don’t want to share a bed with him. It’s almost sad.”

They passed away the afternoon, the three of them, reminiscing and talking about sundry things. The sun set, and the beer turned into vodka. By nightfall, the two men felt safe enough to lean on one another, Geralt nestled into the crook of Iorveth’s neck and the elf’s arm draped around the witcher’s shoulders. 

“Invited to the christening in Upper Aedern? You two? I might invite you to a wedding, but not a christening.”

“Iorveth couldn’t make the wedding. I was a sad-sack at it. Pretty sure if we miss this, Saskia will send an army.”

Iorveth bonked his head against Geralt’s playfully. “In my defense, I was technically dead for a year or two there. I can’t be faulted for that.”

Margot rose, knees creaking. “Elves and witchers- time was I could keep up with you, but no more. My hair’ll be white as yours soon.”

“You’ll look good. Pale hair suits you.” Geralt replied.

“Be that as it may, I do need sleep. I figure you’ll be here a couple of days at least. Walk around, see the sights again. A decade changes things.”

She started away with a wobble in her step but paused to turn back. “I’ll put you on the third floor- We’ve got a third floor now- end of the walk. You won’t bother the other guests with your noise. If memory serves, your witcher makes noisy partners.” 

She tapped the bridge of her nose with a wink and finally departed.

Geralt felt Iorveth’s eye on him. If his body allowed him, he’d have blushed. 

“What’s say we test that theory?” He asked, sliding his hand from Iorveth’s knee to midway up his thigh. The muscles flexed slightly under his hands, tensing in anticipation. “That we won’t bother anybody.”

“I like this idea.”

They slipped like shadows up the stairs. At the first landing, Iorveth caught Geralt against a wall, thigh pressing between his knees. “I can’t not kiss you,” he muttered, dipping down to catch Geralt’s lips with his. Geralt’s hands found the elf’s familiar waist and pulled him close, grinding them together and slotting like old lovers often do. 

They broke at footsteps. Geralt smirked at Iorveth. “Can’t keep away for a day? You’re getting soft.”

“As if you weren’t planning on doing the same,” Iorveth tossed over his shoulder as he darted up the next flight. 

This time Geralt caught Iorveth, both arms around his waist, to pin them together. He snarled quietly against Iorveth’s neck and nipped the tender flesh. Iorveth melted against him beautifully. 

“I’d fuck you right here,” Iorveth managed, reaching up to tangle his hand in Geralt’s hair and push him closer to the elf’s neck, “But I don’t think Margot would forgive us.”

They half-dragged, half-kissed each other down the hall to the very last door. Geralt fumbled for the door and nearly sent them both tumbling. Iorveth seized his chance and tripped the agile witcher into the bedroom. Geralt knew the process and didn’t really fall. He feigned it and ended up on his knees. Iorveth shut the door behind them and leaned against the heavy wood, languid. 

“Since you’re on your knees anyway...” He drawled, nodding to his belt. 

“My pleasure.” Geralt slid forward, running his hands up Iorveth’s clothed thighs. His mouth soon followed, biting down through the fabric until the elf hissed in pain. In this way, he made his way to the buttons and belt holding up the trousers, Geralt’s newest enemy. 

He could have been fast, but the witcher chose to take his time disrobing Iorveth. The belt came first, his thumb flicking the clasp so teeth could latch on and pull the leather strap away. The buttons came next- one, two, three, four- slipped open. He could not keep his mouth idle and nudged the edge of Iorveth’s tunic up, pressing kisses and biting a pattern of bruises against his sharp hipbone. 

No matter how used to this treatment Iorveth got, how everyday their lovemaking was, he could not shake a certain impatience to feel Geralt on him. This was why he gripped Geralt’s snowy hair by the fistful. This is why he bucked his hips forward and tried to grind and find friction for his needy bulge on Geralt’s hand. 

“Fucking tease,” Iorveth bit into the air. “You drive me mad.”

As he spoke, Geralt had just finished undoing the last button on Iorveth’s trousers. He nudged them down just enough to free the elf’s cock, nuzzling the base of it. Iorveth pulled at the witcher’s hair and coaxed a quiet moan from Geralt’s throat.

“You got it out, witcher; I think that means you’re responsible for it.”

To this, Geralt replied with a withering look that only made Iorveth laugh. “Come on, you like this fine.” 

He tugged at Geralt’s hair again, harder this time, and the witcher’s eyes fluttered shut. Iorveth saw the barest parting of the lips, and he knew he had succeeded in his mission of captivating Geralt for yet another night. The tip of his boot found Geralt’s crotch and pressed gently on the hard lump it found there. 

Geralt’s fingers twitched, and his breath caught in his throat.

In their years together, Iorveth had learned to read Geralt like he read the forests. The subtlest change in behavior could mean so much if a body knew what they were looking for, and on the witcher, something so visible as a moan or a twitch equivocated yowls and begging from a more natural creature.

Every time they touched, Iorveth strived to coax more sweet music from Geralt’s lips.

Any further plan for this, though, was lost as the witcher moved to take Iorveth into his mouth. The elf’s head lolled back as Geralt suckled on the head, then pushed forward an inch, then two, then three, pulling back and forth lazily. Iorveth still had a good grip on his head, but his arm was slack, allowing the witcher to move at his own pace for the time being. 

Geralt didn’t rush himself, moving his hands up to grip Iorveth’s hips, thumbs digging under bone. The slight ache made the elf groan loudly, his grip tightening on Geralt’s head. In short order, Iorveth lost the ability to track time- all blended into a pleasant haze focused on Geralt and his ministrations. Anywhere the witcher touched left a trail of warmth, nearly electric on his flesh. 

“I will never tire of this,” he mumbled, smiling at the pleased sound Geralt made in reply. 

There was no hurry in the witcher’s movements. He took his time when enjoying Iorveth’s body, and the two set about a routine quickly. He would move his head forward, then back, agonizingly slowly. Iorveth would tug his hair or press his boot harder on Geralt’s cock, and Geralt would pick up the speed for a little. He always slowed down again, though, pulling whines and threats from Iorveth’s throat.

Eventually, the elf cracked open his eyelid to look down at Geralt’s face, as close to bliss as he could get in such a position. A bit of movement caught the corner of Iorveth’s eye- Geralt’s hand retracting from Iorveth’s hip to reach down so that the witcher could enjoy some pleasure himself.

“Now that won’t do,” Iorveth’ purred.

He bent forward and pulled Geralt’s head back by his hair. Iorveth crouched a little, groping the witcher with his hungry green eye. 

“You are magnificent like this, my wolf. Prone. Wanting.” He pressed his boot again against Geralt’s bulge, nudging his hand away, and relished the sigh it elicited. “Needy, even.”

His free hand cupped Geralt’s face, thumb running over his bottom lip and slipping between Geralt’s teeth. Geralt sucked it gently so that when Iorveth withdrew his hand, it came with a soft pop. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Geralt thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, not tonight. I want you, though.”

Iorveth bowed his head and kissed Geralt sweetly on the forehead. “Then it is I you shall have.” 

He stepped gracefully around Geralt, shedding his jacket and tunic on the floor. Spinning on his heel, he sat on the bed, spreading his knees and crooking his finger at Geralt. “Come and get me.”

Geralt woke up earlier than he would have liked but happy to be in a bed that wasn’t rocking with the tides. He tried to sit up but was unable to do so comfortably due to something weighing him down. Geralt inclined his head to look at himself and, unsurprised, found Iorveth’s arm flung out across Geralt’s chest. Iorveth had developed a habit of sleeping on his stomach, one arm wrapped around or draped atop some part of Geralt’s body. This worked well, as the witcher enjoyed sleeping on his front, resting a hand on some piece of Iorveth. 

He looked over at his sleeping partner, and his heart swelled like it did every morning. Some time during their escapades last night, Iorveth’s hair had come out of its braid, blue-black oil slicks spilling over his shoulders and midway down his back. He’d been threatening to cut it for years now, but he didn’t mean it. Geralt had let his mane grow out as well, although his barely tickled the tops of his shoulder blades when undone. 

Through the thick veil of hair, Geralt could see Iorveth’s head tilted to one side, the empty hollow of flesh where his eye once was just noticeable through the midnight strands. It looked much better now than it had, although the scar tissue beneath always looked a shade or two paler than the flesh around it. 

Geralt considered them both together, two warn-torn men who, for all the world, should not be expected to trust another living person after the lives they’d lived. 

And yet.

And yet they did. 

Soft, shuffling feet outside their door made Geralt freeze automatically, but he need not have worried. No one knocked on their door or notified them that the boat was leaving, and Geralt could smell something good- likely breakfast waiting outside the door on a tray. A lazy morning promised itself to Geralt, and he set out to enjoy it.

He tried to move out from under Iorveth’s arm without disturbing the elf, and he nearly managed. Just as he was about to slip out from under the warm blankets, slender, bow-calloused fingers took his wrist.

“S’never going to work,” the elf mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Is that so? I can recall a couple of times you slept like a rock when I crawled out of bed in the morning. Last month, for example.”

Iorveth tried to scowl, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “Not what I meant.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Iorveth pulled himself up on one elbow using Geralt as leverage and pulled the witcher into a sleepy morning kiss. 

“That. You won’t get away with waking me up and leave me unkissed. You’re not allowed to.”

“Then let me return the favor- technically, you kissed me, not the other way around.”

Geralt loosed himself from Iorveth’s grasp and ran his hand up the elf’s wrist, to his arm, his shoulder, and finally coming to rest caressing the back of Iorveth’s neck. In this way, he pulled them together and into another kiss. On this one, he lingered, enjoying the drowsy movement of Iorveth’s hands over his waist and back and the impending tangle their blankets became. Two kisses became three, four, five, six, a dozen, until they had essentially returned to bed by virtue of engaging themselves in it again and actively. 

Finally, Geralt broke for breath and looked down at his elf adoringly. “The food’ll get cold if we keep this up.”

“You make a good point,” Iorveth admitted, grudgingly. 

Geralt nodded sagely. “And if we do nothing but stay in our room, people will talk. Wouldn’t want to start rumors your chastity was in question.”

Now Iorveth had to laugh out loud, shoving the witcher off of him playfully and rolling bare-assed out of bed. “Young man, you should speak for yourself. You may be a silver-haired harlot, but I am a terrorist known for corrupting dh’oine society. My chastity hasn’t been in question for a century, but we wouldn’t want to confirm you’re a monster fucker this way.”

He tugged on his trousers, still smiling. “I think they’d be more offended to learn you weren’t just bedding their boogyman. What would you call what you’ve made of me, anyway? The normal epithet doesn’t work.”

Geralt joined him in dressing, considering this. “You’re pretty honest with me. I think it fits. You could also just use the actual word.”

“Yes, but that’s far less fun than euphemizing. Saying the thing directly spoils the fun.”

“Fun?”

“Oh yes, not to mention the time it takes to process the euphemism gives you time to put an arrow between their eyes if necessary.”

Geralt conceded that, yes, this was a good point. “Good morning, by the way.”

Iorveth paused, doing up the buttons on his soft linen shirt, then took it up again. “I’ve always found that phrase strange. “Good morning”. What does it really mean? Do you wish me a good morning, or imply that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or that you feel good this morning? Or that it is a morning to be good on? So much vaguery in two little words.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow. “So what do elves say?” 

“The same, “taeghane maethe”, but it’s no less strange a thing to say, I think. Nothing better immediately springs to mind- don’t mind me. I’m groggy.”

They broke their fast on the contents of the tray outside in the comfortable silence that comes with age. Every now and again, one would comment, and a short conversation might ensue, but for the most part, they simply enjoyed each other’s company.

Eventually, the morning went so long it threatened to turn into noon, and Iorveth was becoming restless. 

“We’ve been stuck indoors for days- and don’t say ships don’t count as being stuck indoors; you hate them just as much as I do-”

Geralt dutifully shut his mouth and kept that exact opinion to himself. 

“-And if I don’t get some fucking enrichment soon, I’ll make it myself. It’s a nice romantic walk in the woods or a bloodbath. Your choice.” He flippantly fired the last two words over at Geralt.

The witcher, for his part, did not take this threat seriously. Of course, Iorveth had a body count to rival many small nation-states, but their life together had mellowed him somewhat. It didn’t hurt that Dutchess Anna Henrietta quietly allowed the Corvo Blanko vineyard to dispatch of any bandits that happened its way as the owners saw fit. There was no need to waste a knight of the realm’s time with two of the deadliest men in the world keeping watch.

“We’ve already destroyed the town once, and repetition isn’t really my style. Why not try something new? If the walk in the woods doesn’t cut it for you, we can take the destructive route.” Geralt’s bones creaked as he spoke, reluctantly rolling out of the warm bed. He wouldn’t have minded sleeping until noon and spending the day doing nothing, but Iorveth could barely last a day without wandering. Something about elvish nature. 

Geralt wasn’t going to complain, though. It was hard to with fresh game to eat every day.

“Where to?” Geralt queried, searching for his trousers. “I don’t remember what’s around here anymore, besides nekkars and endraga.”

Iorveth smiled mysteriously and inclined his head, twisting his hair as surely as he braided bowstrings. “I’ve got some idea. Indulge me in some small surprise.”

It shocked Geralt how quiet the Flotsam woods were. This was the third time he’d stopped to look at trap-rigging designed to repel beasts and trap any who dared come near the town. “Who have they got dealing with their monsters? I need to ask some questions; this is some really excellent pest control. It’s like what I use in the vineyards- You know the north-wast field?”

“Mmm, yes, the pheromone traps?” Iorveth had acquired a more than passing interest in Geralt’s profession. You couldn’t help but learn about the dangerous flora and fauna of the world around them witcher.

“Exactly like those, but see, it’s modified with something clockwork-powered and goes on time-release intervals to keep the repellant even. If we can find them, I’d like to get a copy of the plans.”

Iorveth gave him a sidelong look. “Still trying to push your profession towards extinction? Don’t tell your brother-witchers. They’d have a conniption.”

“Not hoping I’ll be successful, get to retire, stay home all day?”

At this, Iorveth rolled his eyes. “As if you’re capable of that. You’re meant to be retired already, and what were you doing a day before we were supposed to head this way?”

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the ground. “Getting archespore venom.”

“Yes. Some men keep a hobbyist interest in their old professions, but we all still call you “witcher” for a reason.” Iorveth rose to his feet from the squat he’d been holding and brushed dirt from his palms. “It’s not a bad thing, wanting to change the nature of what you do. Maybe a future will come where a “witcher” will not be men mutated, but a profession of people who are simply experts in making things that keep beasts at bay rather than killing them.”

Geralt stayed where he was, still looking at the ground, clutching his hands together between his knees. Iorveth took Geralt’s shoulder tenderly, squeezing it.

“You can admit you find joy in your work. It makes your life no less to do so.”

Geralt clasped Iorveth’s hand with his own, strong and reliable under his calloused fingers. 

The witcher looked up at the canopy above, squinting his amber eyes at amber skies. “It’s nearly mid-afternoon. We should keep walking. I’ll try not to stall us again.”

“I’m sure you’ll try your best and fail spectacularly- and I won’t mind a bit.”

He joined Iorveth back on the trail, taking the elf’s hand in his, a silent “thank you.”

To be truthful, Geralt had expected they’d end up here. 

They’d scaled the hill to admire elvish ruins and smell the magical roses. To Geralt, it smelled like leather oil, sage, cave water, woodlands, fresh tobacco, and good, clean dirt. All smells of Iorveth. 

Iorveth caught whiffs of horse-sweat, crisp cotton shirts, vodka, foxglove, mineralized blade oil, and a distinct scent that came only when a silver blade is drawn from its sheath. 

The whole place smelled of love, and they basked in it through the warm afternoon, lazing in the grass like old tomcats.

“Careful where you step. You’ve fallen into the baths below, what, twice now?”

Geralt shot Iorveth a look, but it had no malice in it.

In reply, Iorveth leaned forward and took an exaggerated whiff of the witcher’s shirt, wrinkling his face up comically. “Phew, I almost wish you would fall in. What’s say we have a stroll down, see if the old pathway’s still open?”

The witcher thought on this. He had been looking forward to a hot bath in the privacy of their room, but something was exciting, stimulating even, to the idea of bathing out here in this place, so open and exposed. 

He acquiesced, under the understanding that he would get a hot bath with soap and all the trimmings at some later date.

Iorveth eyed the Geralt-shaped hole in the wall and sighed through his nose. 

“You’re a bit of a hypocrite, you know.”

Geralt didn’t respond, busying himself with his boot buckles. Iorveth continued nonetheless. 

“There’s lessons you keep trying to enforce upon others, and yet here we have evidence you don’t take that advice yourself.”

Now the witcher did raise his head slightly. “And what lesson’s that?”

“To never meddle in the affairs of witchers.”

“Isn’t that wizards?”

“Mm, no. You should never meddle in the affairs of wizards because they are subtle and quick to anger. You should never meddle in the affairs of witchers because they aren’t subtle at all, and that makes them prone to stabbing.” The elf nudged a bit of debris with his foot. “Or whatever this is.”

“That would be punching, mostly.”

Iorveth continued to study the wall with passive interest.

“You’ve been quiet the past few days.”

“Mmm.”

The elf turned back and walked towards the aged bench, sitting next to Geralt and mimicking his motion to remove his own boots. 

They sat in silence together, slowly removing piece after piece of clothing until both down to their shirts and trousers.

“Would you like to talk about why?”

Geralt didn’t reply for a while. “I don’t know. It’s being here, I think. In Flotsam.” He held out his hand in front of his face, curling and uncurling his fingers. “It feels unreal, confronting myself this way. I’ve done it more and less literally, but this is really where my life began for the second time. It reminds me how alien I felt.”

Iorveth reached out to tuck some of Geralt’s silvery hair behind his ear. “True. I would have called you hollow then if asked.”

Geralt leaned into Iorveth’s touch and sighed. “I would, too. Part of me is afraid this has been a dream. That I’ll wake up on the boat into Flotsam empty again with all that work in front of me again.”

Iorveth pressed his weight against the witcher’s, finding comfort in it, and looked around the baths. They were still functional, still beautiful even- and someone had come down here recently to remove rubble, he could see footprints in the dust- but all the care in the world did not hide evidence of Geralt and Letho’s battle in the once upon a time of their past. Just off to their right Iorveth could barely make out the room where he’d found Geralt lying half-dead and bleeding.

The memory brought with it a tight fear in his heart.

Geralt took his hand and squeezed it until Iorveth calmed down. They breathed together in the quiet, smelling caves and water sloshing in the pool before them, somehow perpetually clear and warm. 

“I’m not hollow now, am I?” Geralt asked, his voice steady and calm without worry or query. He knew the answer, and only asked to hear Iorveth say it.

“No. No, you’re not at all. You’re full of a lot of things, now-” The witcher heard a nasty smile crack Iorveth’s mouth as he spoke. “-yourself, bullshit, stubbornness…”

A matching smile pulled at the corners of Geralt’s mouth in kind. “All very admirable traits you’ve infected me with.”

Iorveth laughed and Geralt’s heart swelled, the bright, brash sound bouncing off of tiled walls infinitely. “Liar! You’ve been stubborn since the day I met you.”

“True, true.” Geralt stood up and stretched until his back cracked. “Some days I wish I could trade places with myself back then.” He unlaced his shirt, tugging it off smoothly, then set to work on his trousers. “You know, I wanted to pull you off that branch and wipe the smirk off your face. Thought you were pretty then, too.”

“Really? Recovering from your amnesia didn’t cure you of such delusions?” Iorveth did not make a move yet, admiring Geralt’s naked muscles from his comfortable seat. 

“Nope. Are you ever going to stop asking me that?”

“Maybe.”

Geralt’s pale skin nearly glowed in dark places. The bedroom they shared in Toussaint had no windows, rendering it black as pitch when night fell. Iorveth woke up in the night sometimes when his dreams plagued him, and the moon-pale outline of his witcher brought him out of his panic and back to reality every time. 

He gravitated towards Geralt like a moth to a flame, resting his hands on the witcher’s broad, powerful shoulders, pressing himself against Geralt’s bare back. 

“I love you,” he murmured. “It may be ridiculous, but I think I loved you here before, too. I would have killed Letho with my bare hands if you hadn’t survived.”

Geralt reached up and took Iorveth’s hand and brought the elf’s knuckles to his lips. He kissed the crosshatched scars one by one, the bow-callouses on Iorveth’s fingers, the places he’d kissed countless times before and would kiss an infinite number of times after. 

Onto the flesh of his love the witcher mumbled “I love you, too. I loved you then, I love you now, I’ll love you later.” 

“Reciting your vows? Now that’s just cheating, Geralt.”

Quicker than thought Geralt tightened his grip on Iorveth’s hand and tugged, spinning as he did, to force them face to face- or at least as close to face to face as they could come with Iorveth’s superior height. “It’s fair. They got you to marry me.”

Iorveth snaked his arm around Geralt’s waist and loomed inward until Gerlat was forced to look up to keep focus on Iorveth’s face. “That’s not what convinced me. You, all of you, did. Your stubbornness-” he shifted, pressing a kiss against Geralt’s jaw, savoring Geralt’s sharp breath. “-Your strength. Your kindness. Everything that makes you Geralt. That makes you MY Geralt.”

The witcher’s free hand slid up Iorveth’s shirt, tracing patterns in his skin. He fancied he could feel Iorveth’s tattoo, the ink reaching out and swimming under him. In his mind’s eye he could see the pattern under the flesh he touched- Here on the waist a tree’s knot, just under the ribs a bird’s nest, on his hip curling, twisting roots. 

Deciding it was patently unfair he was the only one without a shirt on, Geralt balled up linen in his fist and lifted gently. Iorveth got the message and raised his arms over his head for Geralt to disrobe him. Bare skin presented temptation Geralt never could resist, tossing the shirt aside to run his hands up the elf’s back, all chorded muscle and sinew, to grip his shoulders and draw him in. 

He buried his face in Iorveth’s neck and breathed him in while Iorveth tried to slip his hands between them to undo their trouser fastenings. The witcher was not idle, though, gripping at Iorveth’s flexing shoulders, sinking his nails into flesh hard enough to make the elf hiss, and nipping a train from the nap of his neck across his collarbone to make a fine necklace of black and blue and purple. 

Iorveth’s fingers stumbled distracted over first Geralt’s belt, then his own, barely freeing metal clasps from leather keepings as the witcher distracted him. He didn’t complain beyond a few low, rumbling moans deep in his throat, conveying just as much want as annoyance with the delays. Once both pairs of trousers hung loose around their hips Geralt pulled away, unsure if he felt warm from the heat in the pool or from his desire for the elf. 

“Feel like desecrating a piece of elvish history?” He jerked his head towards the water, quirking an eyebrow. 

In reply Iorveth cupped the back of Geralt’s head and brought them close, pressing a hard, needy kiss to the witcher’s lips which was accepted most amicably. Geralt tilted his head and parted his lips, tongue exploring the familiar geography of Iorveth’s mouth, fingers gripping the back of his neck and nails running down his back. 

Breaking the kiss, Geralt pushed his trousers off and kicked them away, motioning for Iorveth to do the same. The elf did not follow the command immediately, opting to devour the witcher with his eyes. Geralt stood naked before him and tolerated being an object of lust for all of five seconds before turning on his heel and walking into the pool.

“Fine, fine. So impatient,” Iorveth grinned, shedding his trousers.

Geralt had already waded waist-deep in by the time the elf stepped in. 

They fell into each other, shuddering and moaning against mutual contact, mutual skin, mutual need. 

Geralt gripped Iorveth’s ass in his hands, prompting Iorveth to wrap his legs around Geralt’s waist. The elf’s hard cock, so enjoyed last night, pressed against Geralt’s belly as Geralt’s hardness brushed against Iorveth’s. They ground their hips together, locked one against the other. 

Naturally as dancers rehearsed for a lifetime they moved together. Iorveth broke from the kiss to nip at Geralt’s earlobe, a favorite spot, and Geralt moved his hand to a particular spot on Iorveth’s thigh that never failed to elicit a moan. Light-headed and giddy from the water’s warmth they touched without urgency. Geralt’s thumbs pressed into the caverns of Iorveth’s hip-bones as Iorveth pressed and kneaded old scars- some he’d left, but most from other adventures unrelated to their love-making. He’d learned which patches of scar-tissue left Geralt numb in places, and which could be used to coax moans from Geralt’s mouth from sensitivity built up in the tender patches. 

Iorveth snaked his hand between them, grasping both cocks in his practiced hand. He relished this feeling, as apparently did the witcher for Geralt replied by thrusting forward which nearly caused Iorveth to lose his grip. 

Unperturbed, Iorveth squeezed them both a little hard to force the witcher to pause. “Don’t be hasty, love, don’t be hasty,” he panted, looking deep into the witcher’s amber eyes with his emerald one. “I want to savor you,” his hand pumped them from base to mid-shaft slowly and mechanically, up and down, unhurriedly. Geralt had to close his eyes and sigh heavily through his nose to keep calm.

“Yes, that’s the face. That’s the one.”

Geralt cracked his eyes just a little as Iorveth stroked them. “What?”

Now Iorveth moaned, unable to keep his pleasure hidden, continuing after a few torturous moments. “You look almost angry, it’s how I know I’m doing what I need to.”

Geralt growled low in his belly and lunged forward, still supporting Iorveth’s ass with his hands as the elf had not unwrapped his legs from ‘round Geralt’s waist. The witcher’s teeth sunk into Iorveth’s shoulder hard enough to bruise but not to bloody. Iorveth’s head lolled back from surprise and to encourage this behavior. 

Geralt was only too happy to oblige.

In short order Iorveth found he was unable to move his arms, for Geralt’s had wrapped around him so tight and thoroughly that one was pinned to his side, the other with no-where to go but to continue its pistoning upon their cocks. 

There was nothing for it but for him to speed up, which did not bother Geralt in the least.

Wrapped together in the pool they lost themselves in one another. 

Iorveth did not take his eyes of his witcher, memorizing his face again. He collected these memories carefully, closely, any time he could make Geralt’s mask crack even the merest fissure. He loved and fucked in the moment and turned all attention upon his partner, unable and unwilling to relax for fear of missing out on something interesting. In the position they were in currently he fascinated himself with how Geralt’s shoulder muscles flexed and relaxed in time as Iorveth touched them both. He watched with a hunter’s eye- now cupping the heads of their cocks and squeezing, now brushing his thumb between testes and shaft to make the witcher shiver- every action and re-action calculated. 

For his part, Geralt may as well have been in a trance. He veritably suckled Iorveth’s neck, all previous concern or care for precise bruising lost as the haze of love-making settled over him. He had learned in their time that the elf had a most particular ability- to create, in some situations, a pocket in time wherein the witcher could forget himself. It was not magic, no, no spell woven, but the connection of heart and body unfound elsewhere in Geralt’s life.

From the moment Iorveth first touched him with care, Geralt was pulled into a warm golden haze of adoration. The witcher instincts calmed themselves and the universe narrowed down to a single pin-pricked point.

Iorveth.

In these moments Geralt ceased to process anything beyond how good he felt, how good Iorveth felt in him, on him, around him, however they were taking one another. He couldn’t keep from thrusting against the elf now, nor could he speak. A primal adoration settled on him to mirror Iorveth’s attention and he would have it no other way.

It was in this way they first despoiled the sacred place together. Iorveth picked up the speed of his hand, breathing becoming labored. He was having trouble holding back and felt an orgasm building up in his pelvis.

“I’m close-,” he gasped “-you need to tell me. Are you?”

He assumed the whine to be a positive answer.

“Kiss me, Geralt.”

This command Geralt could fulfil, moving away from the bite marks he’d gifted Iorveth with to crush their mouths together. 

Barely seconds later they seized together. Iorveth felt it, the way Geralt swelled and stiffened in his hand just before he came, and this pushed him over the edge. As they came, they almost froze, hearts beating in rapid time together.

They shuddered together a minute or two more as wave after wave washed over them before loosening abruptly. Iorveth’s legs slid loose from Geralt, and the witcher did not grip Iorveth quite so tight. 

“I love you,” Geralt mumbled, his voice warm and low.

“And I love you,” Iorveth replied, his voice musical and sweet.

  
  


They settled on a bench in the pool, enjoying the warm water, gazing up at the sky through the hole in the roof.

“Iorveth?” Geralt broke the silence delicately. Iorveth replied, eye shut, with a quiet hum in reply.

“I want to give you something. Not now, I don’t have it yet, but it’s still something I want to offer.”

Iorveth laughed a little, eye still shut. “You don’t need to ask anymore, I don’t think, but go on.”

“I’d like to get you a ring. Get us rings.”

Now the eye opened slowly, black lashes gradually unveiling the stunning green behind. “Why now? You’ve been my husband a long enough time, do you need something to prove my commitment?”

Geralt slid down further in the pool until the water just tickled the tops of his shoulders. “No. I’m not sure why. It popped into my head last year and won’t shake, but if you don’t like it, just say so.” 

The tail of Iorveth’s braid dangled in the water near Geralt, and he found himself running it through his fingers compulsively. “I like the thought of it. Seeing it on our hands, something of me. Not a claim. I don’t want to force it on you, but I want something to see when I can’t touch you.”

The elf looked down at the top of Geralt’s head from the corner of his eye and thought. 

“My people are usually very averse to rings- bad history, some dwarves feel similarly- but, if you were to have one to match, I can’t say I’d mind. There are conditions- No adamant, no sapphire, no ruby.”

“What, you don’t want a ring of power replica?” Geralt joked.

Iorveth sighed heavily, his head lolling backward. “No, and it may be superstitious, but with the lives we lead, it would not be surprising if we could bring bad luck on ourselves through the wearing of rings like that. Those of my kin who like rings rarely wear those stones, if ever. It’s like wearing the colors of a fallen army.”

Geralt nodded, sighing as Iorveth laid his hand on the witcher’s head and ran his fingers through Geralt’s soft white hair. It floated on the water like sea-foam breakers on a wicked sea or nighttime comet tails. 

“You are beautiful, my Gwynbleidd.”

Geralt said nothing, rising from the water and wrapping himself, his heart, his all, around Iorveth, and the kiss that came after said all it needed to.


End file.
